Marx, in contrast, lived in squalor. He was often sick; he suffered from boils, headaches, and rheumatism. Jenny’s health began to give way. Her seventh child was born dead. She became wretchedly nervous, irritable, and upset. “Daily, my wife tells me she wishes she were lying in the grave with the children,” Marx wrote in 1862. “And truly I cannot blame her....” Marx did not have a regular job but depended on pittances, especially from Engels. He lived from pawnshop to pawnshop. It is a bitter irony of history, indeed, that the founder of communism should be literally kept alive by a wealthy industrialist, and that a “capitalist’s” son, turned communist, should become the second “father” of this revolutionary movement. The great classics of communism, such as _Das Kapital_ (_Capital_), were “hacked out” amid the most trying conditions. For a period the Marx family lived in two furnished rooms on Dean Street, Soho (London). Listen to this description translated from an article by Gustav Mayer: In private life Marx is a highly disorderly, cynical person.... Washing himself, combing his hair, changing his underwear and shirts are a rarity with him.... He is often lazy for days, but if he has a great deal of work, he works day and night with untiring endurance. Very often he stays up the entire night and then lies down on the couch fully dressed at noon and sleeps through until evening, undisturbed by the hustle and bustle of family life.... The room overlooking the street is the parlor and the bedroom is to the rear. In the entire apartment there is not a single piece of clean and good furniture. Everything is broken, tattered and ragged; everything is covered with finger-thick dust, everywhere there is the greatest disorder. In the center of the parlor stands a large table covered by an overhanging oilcloth. It is cluttered with his manuscripts, books, newspapers, the children’s toys, scraps of cloth from his wife’s sewing as well as some tea-cups with chipped rims, dirty spoons, knives, forks, a lamp, an inkwell, drinking glasses, a Dutch claypipe, and ashes. In short, all this conglomeration is piled high and on one table. A junk-shop would have to cede honors to this extraordinary ensemble. When stepping into Marx’s room the coal and tobacco smog makes one grope around the room as in a cave until one’s eyes gradually develop a tolerance to these fumes and one is able to make out, as if in a fog, a few objects in the room. Everything is dirty; everything is full of dust. As for sitting down, that is a really dangerous matter. Here is a chair with only three legs; over there the children are playing at cooking on another chair which happens to be still unbroken. Sure enough, that is the one which is offered to the visitor, but without any effort to clean off the food. You sit down at the risk of ruining a pair